Uncle Jon

“Where is she?” Lorna says, her voice cutting through the post-dinner haze like a scalpel. She’s already on her feet, collecting plates with a distracted efficiency, the kind that comes from years of trying to hold things together even when everything’s falling apart.

The clink of crockery is barely audible over the low roar of conversation. Christmas dinner has just concluded, and the family is in high spirits. The third bottle of wine has been opened, the corkscrew left sticking out like a wound. We’re in the thick of it now—laughter too loud, stories too long, the kind of warmth that doesn’t come from the fire.

Lorna’s husband, Dan, is at the far end of the table, leaning over to pull a Christmas cracker with his daughter, Terry. Opposite Terry, my mother, Catherine, eighty years old and still as sharp as a scalpel, is deep in discussion with her brother, Grant. Grant is ninety-four, lives in a nursing home, and is only out for the day. I picked him up this morning and I’ll drive him back at five. That’s why I’m laying off the booze. That, and the fact that I’ve got other things to keep my head clear for.

The seat next to me is empty.

That was Bethany’s seat.

She got up five minutes ago, saying she wasn’t feeling great, and disappeared through the door into the hall. No one else was paying much attention. Dan was too busy being an attentive father. Catherine was too deep in Grant’s stories. Lorna was too distracted by the chaos of hosting.

But I was paying attention.

I heard her footfall on the stairs. Light. Quick. Intentional.

I noticed the bathroom door on the upstairs landing swing open, then click shut.

“She said she’s not feeling well,” I say, rising to my feet. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Together, my sister and I clear the table. I help her carry it all into the kitchen, my fingers brushing hers as we pass the plates. She doesn’t pull away.

“I’ll load the dishwasher,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “You get on with the rest. What’s next? Dessert?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she mutters, peering through the oven window. “Cheesecake’s almost done.” She turns, her eyes catching mine over her shoulder. “Oh, and there’s a cheeseboard. Crackers. And even an excellent dessert wine I picked up.” Her brow furrows, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. “Oh, sorry. You’ve got to drive.”

“It’s fine,” I say, closing the dishwasher door. “I might have some when I come back from dropping Uncle Grant off. Nice of you to invite him. Didn’t think the nursing home would let him out.”

She smiles, brushes a lock of errant hair behind her ear. “Oh, you know. Christmas. Family. That’s what it’s all about, right?”

She straightens and turns.

“I’d better go see what Bethany is up to. She should be here, not sulking in her room.”

“I’ll do it,” I say, before she can take a step. “You see to the family. Have a drink, relax for a while. How much longer for the cheesecake?”

She nods, relieved. “OK. Great. Thanks, Jon. About fifteen minutes.”

“Leave it to me,” I say. “I’ll take it out when it’s finished. What are we using to serve?”

She shows me, then gives me a hug and a peck on the cheek. “So nice you could make it this year. My big brother. So lovely to have everyone here, what with the year we’ve had. That awful COVID. And all you’ve had to endure.”

I hug her back, hold her a beat longer than necessary. Then release her.

She returns to the dining room.

I set the timer on my watch, then head for the stairs.

Lorna doesn’t know the half of it.

She isn’t aware of the texts Beth has been sending me for the last six months. She didn’t see Beth’s foot running up and down my leg during the first course. She couldn’t see Beth in the hallway through the open door, bending over with her knickers in her hands, giving me a flash of her ass, before she ran upstairs.

No one did.

No one except me.

Which is why my cock is hard.

So hard it’s uncomfortable.

I climb the stairs to the landing. The light is on under the bathroom door. I listen. There’s no sound, but the house feels dangerously alive—the muffled, rhythmic thud of laughter from downstairs vibrating through the floorboards, a constant reminder of how thin the veil is between this room and the rest of them.

I knock gently.

“Beth? You okay? Need some help? It’s Uncle Jon.”

“Yes please,” comes the reply. It’s that voice—the soft, high-pitched cadence from our whispered phone calls. She’s playing at innocence again, using that sweet, breathless tone to mock the very thing she’s pretending to be. “I need help, Uncle.”

The door is unlocked.

I push it open and slip inside, closing it behind me.

Beth is sitting on the toilet, the lid down. She’s wearing a one-piece, sleeveless sailor dress in blue and white, with an enormous bow. It’s indecently short, barely concealing her ass, a style only teenagers can get away with wearing. Beth is nineteen, so technically she still falls in that category, but in every other respect, she fits no category I know.

The skirt is now pulled up around her hips.

Her legs are wide apart.

She’s discarded her knickers.

Her pussy is pink and slick, almost glowing with heat. Her juice has coated the inky tight curls of her pubic hair. It’s on her fingers, where she’s been touching herself. She puts a finger into her mouth, sucks it clean. The air is thick with the smell of her cunt—sweet, sour, sharp.

“Oh, Uncle Jon,” she says, looking me straight in the eye with a gaze that is entirely too knowing for the voice she’s using. “I really need some help.”

I bolt the door behind me and almost leap towards her, coming to a stop within touching distance. She grins up at me as her hands find my fly. It takes only an instant. My cock springs out, fully engorged, throbbing. The head is slick with pre-cum.

“Mmm,” she purrs. “So big. Just like in the photos.” She glances up at me slyly. “I was hoping it was big.”

Her hand wraps around my dick and milks it once, then again, watching my face all the while. A fresh blob of clear liquid appears at the eye. Her fingernails, lacquered to a scarlet sheen, tickle my skin. My cock leaps in her hand.

She peeks down at it, then back up at me.

Her eyes are enormous. “Or maybe it’s you, Uncle,” she whispers, “that needs the help? Can I help you, Uncle? Can I?”

I nod, speechless.

She grins, looks down at my dick, and licks her lips. Beth opens her mouth and tilts her head forward. She stares into my eyes as her other hand slides into my boxers and cups my balls.

I glance at my watch. The glowing numerals feel like a countdown. Twelve minutes till cheesecake. The seconds are a pulse, racing against the thud of footsteps or a sudden call from the hallway.

I take her hair in my hands and drive her throat onto my cock. She squeals, gurgles, nips at me with her teeth, but doesn’t pull away. Her eyelids flutter closed.

Downstairs, a heavy chair scrapes against the floor, the sound traveling up the stairs like a gunshot. I freeze, my breath hitching in my throat, my eyes locked on the door. Silence follows.

Finally, I find some words.

“Yes, please,” I say, my voice a low, jagged rasp. “Yes, please.”